


From Dark to Light

by WillowedHeart



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, depiction of child deprivation, dont worry she is a child, not a love interest or whatever, slight gore, weak stomach do not read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 06:13:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowedHeart/pseuds/WillowedHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just another case. That's all it was.<br/>-<br/>I wrote this one day as an idea to do multiple chapters. Then I stopped. However, I'm putting the one chapter I actually wrote up because I can. Also, thank you to my partial beta. All mistakes are mine though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Dark to Light

**Author's Note:**

> I had an idea, but this was all that came out of it. I'm probably not writing more on this even though I can if I feel like it, so for now, this is complete.  
> -

Even though John was an ex-soldier and enjoyed his work with Sherlock, he couldn’t quite say that he was comfortable in this demonic apartment. Nope, not at all.

Pentagrams were strewn around the walls, carpets, and ceiling - the biggest being in the middle of the living area, etched into the dark mahogany wood that made up the flooring. It was the only one with a circle around it. It looked almost rustic in appearance; melted wax sitting along the edges with a few barely used candles and some with little wick left. A goat carcass sat infested with larva and emitting a heinous smell throughout the area. There were fingers, ears, and other body parts in jars sitting on tables with burning incense and dried herbs – the combined scents were grotesque and ever mixing with the goat. Bones were scattered around the place, some broken in half and others carved into little shapes, pointed and splattered with blood.

“This morning, a neighbor complained about the smell seeping into their kitchen from the ventilation system,” Greg Lestrade muttered as he held a cloth up to his nose and mouth, “so late this afternoon, the landowner’s wife came up to check it out. She knocked, but no one answered and so she proceeded to unlock the door with her husband’s keys. She then left that little pile of puke over there,” he pointed to the right corner next to the hat rack, “before screaming for her husband to call the police.”

John gagged at the smell before forcing his stomach to calm. This was one of the worst smelling things he had ever gotten a whiff of. The mixture of blood, goat, and burning incense and herbs was suffocatingly toxic. He turned away quickly, trying not to gag, as Sherlock danced his way through the disaster zone with a leather-gloved hand over his mouth. Greg gave John a sympathetic, but reassuring look and handed him two clothes.

“Donovan will bring the face masks up at any moment now,” Greg reassured John through his cloth as John tossed Sherlock the other cloth, “and don’t worry about the toxins; the place has been cleared by the Hazard squad as non-toxic. I wouldn’t advise you to breathe anything more in.”

“Bodies – what about the bodies,” Sherlock snapped, annoyed, but snatched the cloth from the air and put it to his lower face, “You wouldn’t have called for something as simple as a decaying goat and a putrid stench.”

Greg sighed, rubbing his forehead and leaned against the wall next to the door of the kitchen, “Matilda Greenroot and Trevor Pilgram, life partners, own the apartment under the name of Pilgram, but haven’t been seen out of the apartment for over two months now. The last time anyone saw them was a little over a month ago when a delivery service came into their apartment in the evening. They left with a large metallic box that was the size of a freezer. We’re thinking the delivery guys had something to do with it since his boot marks are on the ground. He probably brought the animal inside to cover up his tracks in order to throw us off. From what we can tell, no one else has been in-”

“Wrong!” Sherlock’s head snapped up with an excited twinkle in his eyes, “As always. You really need to stop listening to Anderson. Though you are partially correct with the cover-up.”

Greg shook his head, “It seems logical. The evidence-”

“-says something completely different.”

“Stop doing that!” Greg complained.

Sherlock turned to John, signaling him to come over to the decaying goat on the floor. Greg huffed in exasperation and handed John two pairs of disposable gloves before shoving him towards Sherlock. John stumbled over, trying to step around all the blood and marked footprints before he could right himself. Luckily he didn’t hit one.

“Tell me,” Sherlock demanded John, sweeping his empty hand towards the animal before accepting the pair of gloves. He then quickly swapped them with his leather ones.

John rubbed the back of his neck with the hand not clutching his gloves and his cloth, “I’m not really a specialist in veterinarian care Sherlock.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John in exasperation. John sighed as he put on the gloves and turned back to the animal, grimacing as he was forced to take the cloth temporarily away from his mouth to do it.

“The lacerations to the throat were done with a standard kitchen cleaver. The cleaver was poorly handled as you can see by the amount of hacking done to the upper throat. It was quickly done in repetition. So the person doing this would have weak upper body strength or their not used to holding a cleaver.”

John used one of his gloved fingers to pull back a couple of the strips of skin that were barely hanging onto the neck.

“There is no indication of struggle from the animal, but the hatching wasn’t done post mortem. The blood around the neck proves that. I would guess a paralysis or analgesia if they were desperate. It’s been dead longer than a week but no more than two.”

“ _Perfect_ ,” Sherlock said sweeping up and taking along glance around, stopping a little to look at the blood ring, and around it. John took the bloodied gloves on his hands off and placed them in his pocket to throw away later.

“Sherlock,” Greg groaned, “Share with the class.”

“Couple not seen in weeks - both antichrist activists only recently turned within the last few months by family members - apparent from the satanic circles and homemade jars with the fake fingers,” Sherlock frowned and shifted through some of the jars. “Obviously they are to reassure their family members that they have chosen to stick with this life style after the family spent at least six months trying to convert them - some of the jars have real preserved fingers in them that were expensive to get and they weren’t even close to having the income to pay for rent let alone thousand dollar flesh covered phalanges. The wear on the fingers suggest they’ve been in the jars for four months, possibly more. So, rich family background yet they have no money – Oh.”

“What?” John asked, “What do you see?”

Sherlock looked closer at the blood marks and wall, then the items on the tables, and finally the coat rack. He groaned as he shook his head, “Oh-hhh, I can’t believe I almost missed that. Stupid really.”

Sherlock then glared at the walls. It was silent for a few seconds.

“Sherlock!” Greg exclaimed in his lecturing voice, “Stop pouting and get on with it.”

“The couple didn’t live here,” Sherlock began again rather agitated with himself, “Or rather, they didn’t spend more than a few hours here a day until two months ago. No wonder this place looks so barren of personal touches; they weren’t poor, they just needed a space away from home to use. God, just look at the coats! Obviously they were only planning on staying. For what, I’m not sure, but they weren’t going to stay here much longer after the delivery service stopped by… The religious switch was still a rather odd change…”

Sherlock swept over to the walls for a moment and pressed his ear against it.

“The bodies are definitely hidden in this apartment.”

“How do you know,” Greg asked.

“The size eleven shoes from a typical work boot,” Sherlock pointed to the shoe print behind him, “have been planted there. There is slight smearing of the heel where the shoe landed before the foot inside did which means the foot is a lot smaller. Obviously they aren’t used to walking with them either, but they felt comfortable enough in the situation that they didn’t feel like anyone would notice. No one but me probably would...”

John smiled under the cloth, “Brilliant. So where are the bodies then?”

“My dear Watson,” Sherlock’s eyes glanced over at him, “That’s what I mean to find out.”

Sherlock paused at a particular segment in the wall, tapping it lightly with a knuckle, then eyed it carefully. Humming lightly, he pulled out a switchblade that John could only assume he stole from Anderson. It had Anderson’s name on it after all. He started to tap the blade gently around the spot in the wall.

Greg jumped at the sight of the blade, accidently letting go of his cloth. He grabbed it quickly, though before it hit the ground, “Bugger. If Donovan isn’t up here if two bloody minutes, I’ll kill her.”

Sherlock ignored him and continued his deduction as if the last blunder hadn’t happen.

“Dust has settled in the apartment, but someone has obviously been in here many times after the death, at least once a day for the last two weeks searching for something – not sure what, still pending. It could be for the money, but I don’t think that’s the case here – Look at the displacement of some of the jars and candles along with the wall here and over there. They’ve been moving furniture and putting it back in its spot. The drawers haven’t been searched through – so, no, they mustn’t be looking for any money… Hmm some sort of device in the walls then. Why else would they have been so careful with replacement?

“Then, there is the smell. Several air ventilation covers were put on the air vents almost immediately after the murder, probably vying for more time in order to find the device. The ventilation covered up the stench of the human bodies long enough for the decaying animal carcass to be ‘sacrificed’ in the middle of the pentagram and then overtake the smell of human decay. The circle was meant to look older, but as John pointed out, the animal has been dead long. Conclusion: it’s simply a cover up.

“The ventilation covers should have lasted for much longer than they did, meaning an amateur put them in place or there is a specific time slot that the murder can come back. They forgot to take the suction of the other apartments into place which is why we didn’t see them coming in and why it just recently permitted throughout the floor.  The murderer must have been hoping to come back to grab the bodies and then the place would have just been called on mutilation of an animal - only a minor misdemeanor. The murders would have been blind-sided and evidence cleaned up without any knowledge of the crime ever happening. Simple, easy, and extremely messy; makes my job so dull.”

“Which means the guy had a copy of the key to this apartment,” John acknowledged, just barely connecting what Sherlock was saying, “So a close friend or a family member then.”

Sherlock turned to John and gave him an eyebrow of approval, “Close, John.”

John grinned a little as Sherlock turned back to what he was doing, which John could see was him outlining a little box.

“If Pilgram and Greenroot didn’t live here, they lived at the family estate. The Pilgrams are a family that Mummy knows very well. I don’t recognize the name Trevor; he was probably the annoying snob that sneered and picked his nose. The Pilgrams are notorious for marrying and reproducing when they are in their mid to late teens. I vaguely remember that a woman Mycroft’s age was already a grandmother when she turned 40. They’ve also had this horrible habit of blackmailing in order to get what they want. I would imagine that the estate is filled with people such as this. We will have to interview them since they are the ones that match the requirements at this time.”

Sherlock punctuated the last word with a stab straight into the middle of the box he carved. He pulled the switchblade back, taking the chunk of the wall with him. John and Greg shouted, but grew quiet as a little lever came into view.

“It used to have a slider over it, but the last person to use it didn’t close the hatchet door. The wallpaper and plaster automatically swings shut. I just cut it off because we don’t have the metallic key,” Sherlock explained.

“What’s a metallic key,” Greg asked.

John tilted his head, “Magnetic force key. We used it in the army to keep enemy troops from getting the door open to the firearms. You basically use a negator to separate the magnets and allow the door to swing open. Eventually it will close on its own since the pull of the magnets is rather intense.”

“I see,” Greg said, “Wonder if we could use that to keep Sherlock out of the morgue.”

“Don’t you dare,” Sherlock hissed at Greg, taking the chunk of wall off the switchblade so he could wave it at him, “or I’ll make your life a living hell.”

“Like it isn’t already,” Greg snorted off-handedly.

Sherlock then turned to John with a glare, “Stop giving him ideas.”

“Oh calm down Sherlock,” John comforted with a smile, “The yard couldn’t afford the mess you’d make let alone the locks themselves.”

“I resent that!” Greg half shouted, “And anyway, isn’t it a bit odd that the person who killed the two people couldn’t find the stupid thing?” Greg asked, “If it leads to where the killer hid the bodies then shouldn’t they know where it is? Is it possible they lost the key?”

“Then why move the furniture in the first place?” John said, trying to put Greg down gently.

“This makes the case much more interesting,” Sherlock smirked before switching the lever down and stuffing the switchblade in one of his coat pockets. “It leads to the question of ‘what factors are we missing?’”

“I haven’t the faintest,” John muttered, trying to figure out what happened after the switch went.

“Neither do I,” Sherlock said with a gleaming eye, “but I think that whatever lies behind this switch will lead us to it.”

Utter silence filled the space before Sherlock – who was frowning underneath his cloth – turned to Greg.

John coughed once into the cloth in his hand, “I think the switch runs on electricity.”

“Did you forget to turn on the electricity for any of the other rooms or just this one?” Sherlock asked, furrow in his brow questioning along with him.

Greg blinked, “I told Donovan to call the landlord…” and trailed off. He closed his eyes with a furrowed brow.

“I think the landlord said he cut the power and plumbing almost two weeks ago and that the switch was just in the hall,” Greg muttered and opened the apartment door. “Yeah. It’s just right here.”

Greg’s form went out of John’s line of sight and then Greg called, “Okay, just give it a moment to warm up.”

The lights flickered a bit then went brighter. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Listen.”

 A grinding noise, just loud enough that only the current inhabitants of the apartment could hear, spread quickly through the wall. The small group was quiet as the eerie noise drifted off into nothing. Gently, a slow growing breeze ghosted past John’s legs, rattling the kitchen door before it became motionless.

“Did the freak find the bodies yet?”

John’s head snapped away from the door as Donovan entered the apartment, followed closely by Anderson. Both had on face masks and were holding out three masks for the others to use.

“It’s about bloody time you got here,” Greg leaped for one and quickly put it on, happy to be able to breathe again.

John took the ones Anderson had with him and, again, tossed one to Sherlock who grimaced at it, but put it on after a firm look from John.

 “As if he wouldn’t have,” Anderson muttered to Donovan. “He must have been talking with the murderer earlier and knew exactly where to find them. How else could we not have found them in such a small area?”

“Your incompetence is, as always, remarkably off the charts,” Sherlock rolled his eyes at Anderson then turned to Greg. “Lestrade, open the door to the kitchen and make sure to close it on the way in.”

Greg leaned a bit to the left and opened the door with an exaggerated sigh.

“Your highness.”

Sherlock ignored the jab, but as John followed giggling, there was a little twitch of his mouth. Donovan, Anderson, and then Greg followed right behind.

The kitchen, for all prior knowledge and evidence stating that the place had been trashed, was almost completely opposite of the living room. It wasn’t new or rich, you could see the age of the place easily through the worn hinges, but it was undeniably clean to a point that it could be part of a hospital or a morgue. John watched as Sherlock slicked a finger over the counter near the sink.

“It’s probably safe to lower our masks in here,” John observed one of the potted plants by the window and saw that it was still living. If the smell got too bad then they could just put the masks back on.  John’s eyes roamed around the kitchen as everyone moved the masks down against their necks.

“Never seen a kitchen this clean before,” Greg commented lightly. “Or this quiet.”

“Or this rutty cold,” Donovan grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest and shivered. John agreed with the two silently, happy he was wearing one of his baggier, softer jumpers.

The dark stained wood of the counters and cabinets were imposing as the single, low-intensity bulb drew shadows over them. They left you feeling like you were constantly in the office, waiting for a tense possibly job-threating meeting with the boss. A singular metallic table stood menacingly eerie in the middle of the room underneath the light. There was a small white sheet sitting on top that John recognized from his clinic tables. That alone left an ominous feeling in John’s stomach. He turned to look at Sherlock and his stomach grew queasier. Sherlock stared at the table with a look that scared John. He must have seen something terrible in the kitchen for it seemed that he couldn’t believe what he saw. John saw the emotion behind that look. He would have rejoiced at this show of his human side if only the situation wasn’t this tense. No one else seemed to catch the darker tension.

“Well that’s new,” Greg commented as he pointed to the rusty, gargantuan fridge that was shifted to the left, shadowing the opening of a dark room inconspicuously if only for the first glance. “Anybody have a torch on them?”

“I got one,” Anderson said, pulling one from his scrubs’ back pocket, but frowned. “Hey. Where’s my switchblade-”

“Here. I was done with it anyway,” Sherlock thrust the switchblade absentmindedly at him. He turned away from the table to observe the fridge.

Anderson harshly took it from Sherlock with a displeased growl, “Freak. Stop taking my stuff!”

“We’d better take a look,” Greg said, ignoring the little tiff. He sounded a bit wary about going inside.

“Let that one go first,” Donovan said to Greg. He shrugged and looked over at Sherlock.

“John,” Sherlock turned to look at John, tilting his head a tad towards the hidden entrance.

John nodded once, “Right. Got it,” and pulled out his gun, switching the safety off as he did so. He moved to stand just in front and to the right of Sherlock.

Anderson clucked his tongue, “I’m the one with the torch. I’m not letting the Freak get any more of my things.”

“Probably for the best,” Sherlock replied in a sigh.

“Oh?” Anderson looked incredulous, “Really?”

“Of course,” Sherlock turned a large fake smile to Anderson, “You **are** the most expendable one.”

John would have laughed at Anderson’s disgruntled expression if the atmosphere coming from the kitchen and hidden room wasn’t causing chills to run down his spin. His blood started pumping and his hands were steady. There was something in this room; something more than the bodies.

Anderson grumbled and pushed past the lot of them, John and Sherlock following right after him. However, the moment Anderson stepped in, he gagged.

“Good lord,” he wheezed, pulling his mask back up to his face, “At least we know the bodies are somewhere in here.”

“It’s not just bodies,” Sherlock remarked with a tiny waver of his voice, “The toilet in the corner is overflowing with fecal matter.”

John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, though he didn’t see it in the dark. If he had, he ignored it. There was something Sherlock wasn’t telling John and John didn’t like it one bit.

“Great. Sewage hazard,” Greg muttered, “Donovan, stay here at the opening.”

“Fine by me. I don’t have to get a mouth full of shite,” Donovan moved inside the entrance and leaned against the left of the frame.

The light from the torch was small, but bright enough that it could just barely reach the other side of the room. Anderson slowly moved the light around the perimeters, catching a bathroom like area in the right corner and a bed with a single pillow, sheet, and stuffed animal of some sort further left.

“I’d say this room is about the size of the entire apartment,” Anderson commented.

“It is an apartment,” Donovan said, “The land owner said the apartment next to this one had been under renovations for months a year and a half ago and no one but the workers had been in. They finished about a year ago and someone under the name Machini rented the place, but the owner hasn’t met them. He said that they always pay their dues on time via mail.”

“It’s a pseudo,” Sherlock stated without preamble, “A rather pathetic one at that. Machini is the brand name of the type of coat the victims were wearing.”

“It’s an expensive and exclusive brand,” John realized, “Who in this area could possibly have known it? Brilliant catch Sherlock.”

“Hmm, my thoughts exactly,” Sherlock said with a little perk in his face, “Now if we just had some proper lighting in here... I don’t suppose you had a moment of clarity and turned the power on for this apartment did you, Lestrade?”

“No,” admitted Greg, face a bit sour.

“I got the landowner to turn the power on for the entire floor just as we walked in,” Donovan commented. “From prior experience, I was sure we would need it. The only comment I got from the owner was that it took a couple of minutes for the generator to get started so he advised us to wait at least five minutes before turning anything on.”

John knew he wouldn’t say it, but he was sure Sherlock was mildly impressed by Donovan if his silence was anything to go by.

“So, where are the bodies?” Anderson asked.

Sherlock glanced around the room, “I don’t know. The light isn’t that great here.”

Anderson glared at Sherlock, placing a hand on the wall, “My torch may not be-”

Anderson snatched his hand back with a yelp.

“The bloody wall bit me!” Anderson muttered unintelligibly as a firm click sounded in the room. Not even a moment later there was a solid thud.

“What was that?!” demanded Greg.

“Anderson being an idiot,” Sherlock muttered then said a bit louder, “Don’t move! We should take care to be cautious. John, the sound was the loudest near-”

During this time, John had taken a gentle step back towards Sherlock. He cocked his gun up when Sherlock started talking. He was surprised though when Sherlock zeroed in on him and so he took a step back and hit something with the right side of his pelvis hard.

“Hhhgh,” John grunted in pain, rubbing his bruised pelvis with a hand as he then said rather tightly, “Yeah. Here it is.”

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh, and John suspected he didn’t comment because of the still uncertainty of the situation at hand.

Anderson shined the light to the furniture John hit.

“What is it?” Donovan asked, confused at the sight of a table similar to that of the kitchen.

“A foldable table,” Anderson replied.

“I meant the thing on top of it,” she said.

“What thing?” John asked. Anderson moved over to John’s right side to get as much light on the table as he could Sherlock stood on John’s left.

“Bloody Hell-” Anderson recoiled as the light fully hit what looked to be the mangled bodies of the two owners of the apartment.

“Well,” Greg moved to the table as well, “Found the bodies.”

John knew that Sherlock just rolled his eyes when he heard him mutter ‘obviously’ under his breath. John stared at the bodies closely, categorizing the types of wounds they sustained and it wasn’t pretty. The heads were left alone for the most part, though the eyes were gouged from their sockets and necks broken. The torso and lower abdomen were the worst hit and barely recognizable in certain areas like the chest cavity – both hearts smashed where the chest had been crushed and stabbed – and the groin area – John couldn’t tell you who was the woman and who was the man by looking at them. It was done by frantic hands, and the bodies had been mangled even more by the shape of the compact area they had been forced into.

“Okay,” John licked his lips as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up; it felt like they were being watched. “I’d say the five minute wait period is up. We should probably find that light switch now.”

He said this quietly to Sherlock and Greg. Anderson and Donovan where too out of range to hear it.

“Yes,” Sherlock clipped sharply, probably finding something that unsettled him. He turned and Greg and John did too. Anderson continued to look at the bodies with his torch. Suddenly, Sherlock halted his movements and closed his eyes. Greg and John just missed running into him.

Greg paused, “Uh, Sherlock?”

 “Shut up, everyone. Don’t breath, don’t move,” Sherlock hissed and cupped his hands to his ears. John listened as well and heard nothing in particular besides everyone’s breath.

“Hhhh… Hhhhh,” a raspy, hissing sound overtook the rest of the group for just a moment.

“What was that?” Anderson squeaked and bumped into the table behind him, dropping the torch. It clattered on the ground, rolling just out of his reach towards the bed. Sherlock’s head snapped up.

“Anderson, _don’t-_!” Sherlock spun around as Anderson rushed to follow the light and pick it up from the floor.

“What-”

Anderson stood and met inches away from a stained white cloth holding a dirty, rangy, hand-crafted teddy bear. Anderson’s arm began to shake as he raised the light just enough to get the outline of a face. A hollowed face with wide, black eyes and a piercing expression gazed unblinkingly at Anderson. Its thin, stained, white dress swayed slightly, as everyone remained motionless. Anderson gulped, shining the light straight in its face. The eyes blinked once, before rolling back into its skull, body shaking. Its face contorted as a bloodcurdling wail ripped through it. It jumped Anderson.

“ _FUCK_!!” He dropped down with an agonizing cry, using the torch as a blunt object to hit with.

“ _Find the fucking switch Sally_!” Greg screamed as panic ensued. Donovan scrambled against the wall.

“ _John_!” Sherlock’s voice wavered slightly. John worried that he was having a flashback of ‘the hound’, but he couldn’t do much to help.

“ _I can’t shoot what I can’t bloody see, Sherlock_!!”

The chaos was highlighted by the flashing of the torch. John cursed, lunging forward to help as much as he could, but his eyes couldn’t focus with all of the flashing so he landed off to the right of the flailing bodies. His gun was still poised, but there was no way he could get a clear shot.

“ _My arm! It’s got my arm!”_ Anderson’s terror filled yell and the thing’s wails filled the air. The torch was thrown across the room.

“ _Sally! What’s taking so long?_ ” Greg surged for the wall, helping the frantic Donovan find a switch. Anderson’s gasping sobs were the only sounds heard now.

“ _It’s just - GOT IT_!” Donovan hollered, flipping it on. Simultaneously, a heart-retching shrill of a child pierced the air.

All eyes whipped towards where Anderson went down. Anderson lay, gasping for breath and bleeding sluggishly from a large gash on his arm, his face and neck showing only a couple of scratches. His attacker had bolted into a corner. Its head was turned away from the light, and it rocked quickly back and forth while emitting agonizing moans and whimpers. Its body trembled.  It wrapped its arms around both its knees and the white fabric of a cheap, long sleeved dress.

John lowered his gun, breathing heavily, as he moved towards Anderson. He quickly determining Anderson physically fine, if a bit battered and bruised, but easily healed. John ripped the sleeve of Anderson’s undershirt off and wrapped the gash on his arm up with the strips.

“Get him to a paramedic,” John demanded fiercely towards Greg, easing his way gently towards Sherlock who was standing just next to the corner the child went to, “He’s in shock and fine, but that gash needs to be stitched and cleaned.”

“…Right,” Greg said, his voice cracking once, but then he got ahold of himself, “Right. Okay. Donovan, get Anderson out of here.”

Donovan scurried over to the whimpering man and hoisted him up. Taking a final glance to the child in the corner, she turned and walked away with Anderson leaning on her shoulder for balance.

“Sherlock, are you okay?” John placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder in a comforting gesture. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind and leaned into John. He continued to stare at the child in the corner. John glanced at Sherlock’s face before moving his eyes to look at the child as well.

The crouching child was squashed into a small ball, body shaking profusely. The white dress engulfing the child’s small form was old and stained red and yellow in some parts. It was so big on the child that the sleeves spilled over its hands and bundled on the floor around the child’s feet. John couldn’t see any skin over the wild black hair knotted on top of the child’s head. He did, however, see the protruding vertebrae of the child’s spine and the blotches of blood stained on the dress. The child was severely malnourished and physically abused. John’s heart twanged at the knowledge and he could only guess what the other red and yellow stains on the dress were from.

“John,” Sherlock’s eyes were unblinking, looking at the child, “She wasn’t supposed to be _alive_ -.”

John watched Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut and felt more than saw him take in a shaky breath. John couldn’t even begin to guess what was going through his mind. He was happy to learn what the child’s sex was though. Greg stepped forward and gently patted John’s shoulder. John turned to him and saw a hesitant look in his eye.

“We need to take the child in for questioning and an inquiry, but more importantly she needs a medic,” Greg whispered, glancing quickly at the child then back to John. “Do you think you can get her to come with us without her, well, attacking anyone else?”

John sighed, “We’ll try, she’ll need that medical treatment as soon as we can get to an A&E. and I can’t tell you how long it will be until we can get her to the yard afterwards.”

Greg nodded once and walked out, pulling out his cell phone to talk to who knows, “I’ll be back in a few.”

He left them alone with the girl after that. John stood in a ball of emotion.

“I wouldn’t have thought she’d survived,” Sherlock muttered to John and their eyes met.

John’s eyebrows furrowed, “You knew they had a child?”

“No,” Sherlock denied. John shook his head in confusion.

“I knew they had brought a child here within the last year or so due to the green and blue headband sitting on the side table off of the door. It’s dusty, but still in sight and not in the garbage. It was one of the reasons I thought the couple lived here,” Sherlock continued. “However, I didn’t think they nor the murderer had allowed the child to live. You saw the examination table in the kitchen and in here. I just-”

John shuddered, “So it was used for things of _that_ nature.”

“Torture, purification rituals,” Sherlock sneered, “and I can’t tell if anything sexual went on. I’m going to say no just because the couple didn’t seem to like to touch her – gloves on both victims hands –, but I wouldn’t be shocked to find out if it did happen. This does, however, explain the sudden switch to witchcraft and why the kitchen was too clean.”

Sherlock moved his head to study the entrance of the room, “You can see that they stopped pulling her out of the room in order to torture her. A similar table, sink and toilet near the right corner, a bed hammered down to the floor with a flimsy mattress made of blankets, and a small slide door in the back of the fridge that allowed her to grab the food left for her. By all my calculations, she shouldn’t be alive right now. She must have rationed her food, but ran out at least three weeks ago, and the only clean water she had had been cut off with the electricity She’s been stuck, locked in this pitch black room even before the murders.”

John quickly did the math, “It would be impossible, _should_ be impossible to survive that long. She must have been starving for weeks before the murder! How did she survive if there was no food?”

Sherlock turned slowly to John and gestured minutely towards the bodies. John turned green and only kept his vomit down by sheer force. He spared a look at the girl who was hopefully too caught up in her fear to be hearing any of this. She was currently starting to quiet, but her shaking was very much still present.

“No!”

Sherlock nodded, “There are tears and teeth marks on the sides of the bodies. I imagine the hearts don’t have much blood in them right now either. They definitely didn’t bleed out. She at least had something after the first week of nothing. She either ate or starved.”

John couldn’t stop his eyes from swelling. This was sick.

“So you’re saying that she not only witnessed the murder,” John whispered, “but then ate the victims to stay alive.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Sherlock muttered. Now, he enjoyed solving murders and thefts and other cases, but when there was a survivor, Sherlock’s hidden side blossomed painfully.

A peaceful, yet cautious silence fell over them as they watched the little girl.

“Can you tell how old she is? I can only guess four or five by her appearance,” John asked quietly, attempting to calm his shaking breath.

“She’s seven or close to seven,” Sherlock replied just as quietly, “She is older than you think considering how long the malnutrition has been going on.”

 “So,” John licked his lips, “how do we… what do we do?”

“We help her to the best of our ability,” Sherlock settled his arm on John’s right shoulder and stared at him. John saw Sherlock’s heart twisting in his expression.

“Okay,” John said, “Okay. We help her.”

They looked back at the girl, her shaking had finally calmed down to only a minor shudder. John stepped forward first, kneeling slowly and holding steady. The adrenaline was still pounding in his veins, still telling him to be prepared for any sort of attack. John breathed one final breath before trying to get the girl’s attention.

“Hello,” John whispered to the girl. The girl twitched violently, moving into a tighter ball.

“It’s okay,” John continued, “We only want to help you.”

A violent hissing sound erupted from the girl. John remained calm and saw that Sherlock did too. They both, however were prepared for the ‘just in case’. If she attacked Anderson, then there was nothing saying she wouldn’t attack him.

“I imagine those aren’t words you associate with positive memories,” Sherlock’s low timber rumbled down to the girl who paused. Sherlock looked around for a moment before his expression turned angry then softened. He shifted over behind John, touching John’s back with his legs and opened his coat. It cast a long shadow, dimming the light immensely.

“I’ve dimmed the light some,” Sherlock said, “Your eyes hurt from the exposure after sitting here in the dark. We’ll keep our voices to a minimum volume for you as well. Anderson’s shrills can be heard even if one was deaf. It’s no wonder your ears are ringing.”

A small hiccupping sound came from the girl, but nothing else. The awkward pause was back and John could see the girl was fighting her instinct to hide and her curiosity to look. John opened his mouth a bit to reassure her when he saw her gently start to peak up through a slit in her arm. She glanced up from Sherlock’s head to his feet before her eyes met John. He smiled at her and her eyes widened before she ducked down into her arms a bit. The move reminded John of Sherlock peaking towards him during a pouting session when he thought John wasn’t looking and hiding again when John turned around. He chuckled softly at the memory.

“Oh hush,” Sherlock grumbled to John, “I don’t do that.”

This caused John to snort a bit, and he was glad to see their laughing was drawing the girl out a bit more. He could see though that she was tired and scared. John turned to her again and then decided that they would have to take this slow, so he maneuvered to sit on the floor, Indian style, leaning his back against Sherlock. The girl eyed him wearily with only her right eye as he moved, one of her arms started hitting her mouth and then gesturing towards John.

“These are face masks,” John said as he pointed to his mask, “We aren’t used to breathing in the air here so we are wearing them to allow us to breath.”

The girl sniffled once and wiped her hand on her sleeve.

“Clogged nose,” Sherlock murmured.

“Small blessing for her,” John replied back lightly.

Sherlock could only nod in agreement. John looked at the girl as she continued to watch them.

“I can tell you like animals,” John commented softly, “I haven’t heard a hiss like that since I accidently stepped on my aunt’s cat Lucy.”

John could feel Sherlock’s stare bore into his head. The girl, however, just shifted, curling closer in, still highly tense and frightened.

John tried again as he saw the bear in her grasp, “Your bear is really pretty. Did you make him?”

The girl just drew the bear into the space between her legs and her chest.

“Do you have a name?” John tried a different approach.

Again, just silence.

“How about I introduce us instead? I’m John, John Watson, and this tall, dark looking fellow is Sherlock Holmes. He may look scary, but he’s really just a cuddly bear.”

A small sound was his only reply. For a moment, John wondered if the girl couldn’t talk. She had been in total solitude for quite some time now and she had been forced to do things she probably wouldn’t otherwise, so it would make sense. John smiled at her encouragingly before a sudden thought hit him.

“Sherlock,” John looked up, “Where did you put that granola bar I handed you this morning? I know you haven’t eaten it. You may not be hungry, but I’m famished.”

Sherlock immediately caught on and said with an offhanded sigh, “Phone pocket. I have my coat open so you can probably reach it easier.”

John smiled, snatching the thing from Sherlock and unwrapping it, all while watching the girl whose attention doubled. Both her eyes were on him now, glaring seethingly.

“Do you mind terribly if I had a snack?” John asked, peeling the wrapper down a bit, “I haven’t eaten anything since this morning and I am famished.”

The girl’s eyes were extremely wide and her face started inching up out of her arms. John took a little piece off of the bar and ate it with a small moan. John mentally winced. Was that playing it up too much? John glanced at the girl and patted himself on the back. The girl’s eyes narrowed as he ate, looking him up and down, but they relaxed when John continued to sit there. She brought her head fully up when John gently broke another piece off. She licked her lips at the sight of it.

“Do you want some? It’s really good and I don’t mind sharing.”

John held out the piece as far as he could, palm open and forced his body to look as relaxed as possible. The girl’s eyes were tormented and they flickered back and forth between John and Sherlock and then the food. Her mouth trembled at the food though she stayed back. John could practically hear the gears grinding in her head.

After a few more seconds of that, she seemed to come to a conclusion. She uncurled herself slowly, cautiously. Bit by bit she went into a crouch and slinked her way a bit closer to John’s hand, bear held tightly in her hand. She snapped her gaze between John and the food before quickly launching at John’s hand like some deranged animal and snarled at him. John saw Sherlock’s shadow flicker as John tried to suppress his twitch of alarm. The girl backed herself into the corner and glared, hissing and groaning at the two men. She hid the food from them with her bear and body. John and Sherlock stayed motionless watching. When the child saw they weren’t going to stop her from eating, she turned to the piece of granola and shoved it into her mouth. John heard her whimper out of what he could only assume was relief at getting to eat something. He only wished he had something liquid to help. They would have to grab some water for her when they left.

“Do you want some more?” John asked her. She licked her hand of any granola that was left, eying him in caution. She put her hand down and then decided to sit down before giving John a little nod.

“If you come here and allow me to have a look at you. I’ll let you have the rest,” John held the bar out for her. She shuddered slightly, starting to take in shaky breaths, but she didn’t run. He just waited calmly for her to decide what she wanted to do. After a moment, the little girl crawled over to John, dragging her dress with her and plopped down in front of him, waiting. John smiled at her and she looked away. John’s eyes zeroed in on the marks on her forehead, but he didn’t say a word about what he saw, at least, not yet.

“Now don’t run away, okay?” John broke the bar in half and handed a piece over to the girl, “I’ll give you the other half after you finish that one.”

This time, the girl daintily grabbed the food from John. Before John put his hand down, the girl placed her pointer finger on his palm and drew a smiley face.

John beamed at her, “You are most welcome.”

The girl preened a bit and went to nibble on the bar.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice made John start in surprise. He looked up.

“Yes?”

“We can’t do this here,” Sherlock murmured, “We need to get her to Bart’s.”

“What?” John asked. “Why?”

“Evidence,” Sherlock said, “and I don’t think she’ll be too pleased with any of the medical team downstairs.”

John heard the stress on the ‘pleased’ and remembered the attack of Anderson. John nodded his consent.

“Just so you know, the marks on her forehead are from electrocution,” John whispered. Sherlock could see John try not to curse.

“It’s the reason for her seizures,” Sherlock said back as equally quiet, “Now hurry.”

“Sweetheart,” John trailed the word off as he glanced at the girl who was still nibbling, enjoying the bit of food. John couldn’t fathom how she didn’t choke it down when he realized she probably was so hungry she wasn’t. The girl looked up at him and he decided to actually _look_ at her.

He was stunned by her. While she had looked like the devil’s incarnate under Anderson’s torch, she looked more like a ragamuffin doll now. Sure, her being was untidy and abused, but her face was open and expressive. Her once black orbs were now midnight-blue speckled with grey and splashes of olive drab. They were inquisitive yet hardened by months of horrific events. They softened slightly as John gave her a sad smile. He noticed that she was very empathetic and observant. She’d been able to tell by John’s eyes alone what type of expression he was making. It reminded John of Sherlock almost. He had a feeling that this child would give any adult a run for their money.

He looked over her face to her hair. The black mop on top of her head was so full of sludge and filth that John was almost certain she was not a born dark-haired girl. Her face and skin were equally as mucky and smeared with god only knows. It didn’t help John identify her natural color at all. He also couldn’t tell if she was hurt anywhere other than her back. He hoped she wasn’t because the back wounds were pretty infected from the way she’d been careful not to touch it against anything. He’d have to feel her forehead and get a look at the wounds themselves in order to tell how badly, but she didn’t seem to be suffering at the moment other than perhaps a fever.

John turned to Sherlock, “How are we…”

“Blankets,” Sherlock nodded to the bed, “You’ll also have to be wearing one of the scrubs.”

“The lights will have to go out,” John said, “And we’ll need to have forensics take pictures of the bed and her first.”

“I have an extra scrub and the cameras,” Greg’s voice suddenly pierced the conversation. The girl hissed and scurried back to the corner, stuffing the rest of the food in her mouth.

John sighed, “We’d better get this done quickly while she’s distracted.”

Sherlock, who’d already dropped his arms to the side, grabbed two cameras in his gloved hands. He took dozens of photos of the bed, girl, bodies, toilet and sink, light switch, and entrance. While Sherlock did that, John shrugged on the scrubs and put on clean gloves as Greg handed him each. John shuffled back over to the girl and crouched. He saw that Sherlock was done with taking pictures for now and was coming back to the corner.

“Sweetheart,” John started again and she turned to him once Sherlock’s shadow fell over the pair, “I’m sorry for scaring you with all of this activity, but I have the rest of the bar for you right here. However, I need to look you over first, but we’ll have to leave here to do it. Is that okay with you? Do you want to get out of here? I can even take my mask off if that makes you feel any better.”

John unhooked the mask after sucking in a big breath. He then held out his hand, empty, to the girl and smiled at her. Her eyes had watered and she looked utterly exhausted, but she nodded and lifted her arms up to him. John stood with a smile and gathered the blankets that made up the bed into his arms.

“I’m wrapping you in this because it’s even colder outside then in here,” John explained, hoping it would distract her some more, “And I’ll be extremely careful not to irritate your back, but I’m sorry ahead of time if I do.”

She nodded, allowing him to reach down for her. He swiftly bundled her up in the thin blankets before hoisting her scarily light frame into his arms. He smiled at her, handing the half bar over to her to eat. She shoved that piece into her mouth since it was smaller than the last. She settled easily into John’s arms, pulling the excess blanket over her head as if it were a hood. John could feel her grasping his jumper through the scrub and place her cheek on his right shoulder. He felt her shudder a bit, but welcomed the sudden breath ghosting over his neck as it helped distract him from the nauseating smell of the apartment.

Sherlock quickly ushered John out the door after that. John was happy for that because he could take in a clear breath in the cleaner area of the kitchen. It was still daunting as ever, but Sherlock was taking copious amounts of pictures as he pulled drawers and cupboards open and closed. He was actually making quick work of it and was done in only a few minutes. He nodded to John. John sucked in another deep breath and they moved to the living room.

“I’ll be here for a while taking photos,” Sherlock said, “Wait outside for me.”

John nodded, but the girl wiggled and cried for a moment.

“Sweetheart, calm down,” John tried to calm her down so he wouldn’t drop her, but she was squirming in his arms, reaching her free arm out to the side table.

Sherlock stepped quickly over to the table, snapped a picture and then picked up the headband he had seen earlier.

“I would give this to you, but you don’t want it to get dirty do you,” Sherlock asked caringly which surprised John. The girl’s arm retracted reluctantly and she started to tear.

“How about I put it in a bag and you can take it with you,” Sherlock said softly, “Then you can hold it after John gets you cleaned up.”

The girl hesitantly nodded her head before setting it back on John’s shoulder to watch as Sherlock placed the headband in an evidence bag. He dated it and gave it to the girl. She grasped it just as tightly as she was doing her bear.

“Good girl,” Sherlock said, “Now wait outside for me. I’ll be out in a moment.”

Sherlock pushed them out of the room in two seconds flat, leaving John out in the tape covered hall with the girl in his arms. He sighed, shifting the girl up a bit.

“Let’s wait downstairs,” John murmured to the girl, putting the blanket back over her head, “We can find a place to sit and maybe we can find you something to eat and drink.”

The girl just sighed, burrowing deeper into John. John resisted the urge to place a little kiss on top of the blanket covered head, silently cursing himself. Why did he always have to fall for the lonely ones?


End file.
